


and when the night fades away

by SailorFish



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Desmond has had a rough couple of years, Fealty, Gen, Loyalty, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular opinion, Desmond is not literally an idiot. He's done something idiotic exactly two times in his life. He's not sure about doing the third.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and when the night fades away

Contrary to popular opinion, Desmond is not literally an idiot.

He’s done something idiotic exactly two times in his life -- _One mistake is one too many, dear boy_ , chides Lady Briarwood softly in his mind, and he bites down on his tongue until he is rid of her echo -- but other than that, he prides himself on being fairly clever.

( _T_ _he first time he does something idiotic is two weeks after his father goes missing. He is fourteen, terrified, and all the men and women around him are shouting. That day is the first that he has not pressed his nose to the window for hours, waiting, searching. He hasn’t looked out the window at all._

_The cellar they meet in is overcrowded and dim, and there is enough smoke that he finds himself desperately trying to stifle his coughing. Desmond is… He is there to represent his household. His father is gone and his mother lies in bed weeping. Desmond will step up for her now; he will protect what is left of the Ortham family with pride._

_They all roar, and Desmond roars with them, as the man atop the wooden box shouts about the strength of the common folk, and the fealty owed to the de Rolos, and how the thrice-cursed Briarwoods will pay, pay with their heads._

_Desmond has only his garden rake. But his hands grip the wood tightly enough that they can’t shake, and besides which, a rake isn’t too far below what most of the others in the cellar are holding._

_He is ready._

_(He is an idiot.)_

_“Desmond?!” a startled voice behind him pierces through the crowd’s cheering and he flinches violently._

_His rake clatters to the ground and he ducks down to scoop it up, turning as he does. Around his bent form, men and women begin to press forward, eager, boots heavy, as the doors to the stairs are flung open. Losing his balance would lose him a finger. Desmond springs back up quickly._

_His eyes dart up, but not as far up as they usually have to. It is a young woman who has called out to him. He recognises her as the older sister of a neighbourhood girl who’d been a few years above him in their little school, who he and the other boys are brave enough to tease only from a distance. Trish the Dish’s sister has a well-used short sword strapped to her belt and she looks even tougher than Trish does. She stares down at him in horror._

_Desmond glares back up at her. She has the same look on her face as his mother had had when he’d snuck aboard his father’s carriage for the first time. She has no right to look at him like that -- he’s not a child any longer. He can do this._

_Her lips tighten at the bitter scowl on his face. She matches him, frown for frown, anger for anger, as the people stream past them, chanting, cheering, furious. Someone jostles Desmond, and he nearly stumbles, though his eyes don’t leave the woman’s. Her lips tighten further._

_“You’ll thank me for this some day,” she says._

_Then, her movement so swift he cannot even begin to bring his weapon up to block her, she knocks him out._

_Desmond thanks her every day. Of the fifty-three people in the cellar that day, he is the only one who still lives._ )

And because Desmond is fairly clever, it doesn’t take him too long to figure out who the man who shot him is. Once the keep’s owners are gone, there is not much to do in his cell other than to think and to be afraid; the guard Jarett is cheerful enough, but they have little to say to each other. Desmond would rather attempt to think.

The man who shot him, he’s pretty sure, is Lord Percival de Rolo.

It has to be him: he resembles his father vaguely, and of the names he had thrown at Desmond while Desmond cowered in the dirt, Lord Percival is the only male de Rolo who wasn’t sought after. _Percy_ , the half-elf with the long dark hair had called him.

If Desmond concentrates hard, he thinks he can even dredge up a memory of a much younger Lord Percival de Rolo absentmindedly tossing him a coin while he helped his father prepare the carriage. The man who shot him does resemble the man who’d tossed him a coin -- except for the eyes. The eyes of the young lord in Desmond’s memory are not tinged with madness.

He'd been questioning Desmond for information about his family.

So, the last of the de Rolos. (A figure flashes before Desmond’s eyes, wandering the Briarwoods’ castle pale and grim as if she were also one of the living Dead, with the same streaks of brilliant white hair as Lord de Rolo’s -- but the idea is ludicrous.) The rightful ruler of Whitestone.

Desmond winces. Lord de Rolo was within his rights when he shot off Desmond’s fingers, then.

Or perhaps he wasn’t? It’s all so blurry in his mind now, what the laws had been before the Briarwoods had taken over. Count Tylieri had had the scullery maid’s fingers chopped off for lighting the fires too slow one night and nobody had batted an eye, except Desmond, who had whimpered stupidly and been once more beaten bloody for it. The previous Lord de Rolo would never have done the same, but Desmond can’t remember if it was kindness or the law that had always stayed his hand.

It’s an important distinction: kindness won’t stay the new Lord de Rolo’s, Desmond knows, but the law may yet.

Of course, the half-elf who had promised protection from the Briarwoods had, in some sense, offered protection against Lord de Rolo as well. But Desmond isn’t an idiot: he understands how little such promises are worth. If Vox Machina manages to defeat the Briarwoods (his heart beats quicker at even the thought of it) and Lord de Rolo still wishes vengeance upon his cowardly retainer, well, he’ll plead for his life once more, naturally.

But he won’t hold the half-elf to his promise.

( _The second time he does something idiotic is when he trusts Lord Briarwood’s smile._

_“How very sloppy,” murmurs Lord Briarwood._

_His hand is heavy on Desmond’s shoulder and Desmond, the fool, the idiot, had flinched when it had landed there. No doubt the noble had merely wanted to attract his attention, order him to fetch another bottle of wine perhaps -- and Desmond will die for that wine now. Count Tylieri hasn’t yet noticed this newest case of disgraceful clumsiness, but that doesn’t matter. Lord Briarwood clearly has._

_He feels dizzy; feverish spots swim before his eyes. Lord Briarwood smoothly extracts himself from the conversation, gesturing for Desmond to follow him outside the drawing room. He walks forward -- what else can he do? -- with the steps of a man doomed._

_In the empty hallway, Desmond stands shivering, his head bowed. He cannot stop his trembling, cannot face his death with a straight back. Lady Briarwood must have a delicate disposition, he thinks vaguely -- Count Tylieri and the other nobles gathered inside would have preferred to see blood being spilled live. (In the flesh, as it were.) Instead, Desmond has been brought out to the hallway to be put down like a dog._

_And like a dog, he feels unable to speak, unable to plead or beg for clemency._

_Lord Briarwood begins by asking him to turn around and take off his shirt. Desmond’s fingers shake and he fumbles with the buttons. His breath comes in uneven pants. He’s taking too long. He rips some of the buttons off completely._

_Desmond is not an idiot. His shirt is not some fine thing that should be kept from being spattered with blood. There’s a chance, he realises -- a small chance -- that Desmond has been brought to the hallway to be beaten, not killed outright. He holds on that hope tightly as he presents himself to the noble, and ruthlessly squashes the thought that another beating atop his previous punishment may yet kill him._

_Lord Briarwood hums softly as he looks upon the mess that is Desmond’s back._

_The wounds, bright on his back and curving up wickedly to his shoulders, are fresh. They were the reason behind his flinch. They seep blood still; Count Tylieri forbids others from helping those who had been punished, and so the other servants had merely shot him pitying looks while he had attempted to wrap the bandages around his torso._

_“How very sloppy,” repeats Lord Briarwood and Desmond flinches as if already struck. “This was Count Tylieri’s work, I imagine?”_

_He had not expected to be required to speak. He doesn’t know whether it is better to lie or to tell the truth. Which is more likely to lessen the punishment? He turns back around and gathers up his courage to lie, to put himself in a better light. Paint a picture of Count Tylieri needing a whipping boy, not Desmond clumsily dropping a plate while preparing for tonight’s soiree._

_Lord Briarwood’s gaze is unsettling, mesmerising, penetrating._

_He finds himself telling the truth._

_Lord Briarwood’s mouth curls in distaste at the ragged, stumbling story, but when Desmond finishes and he shakes his head, Desmond thinks there might be a glimmer of sorrow in the noble’s eyes._

_“You must understand,” Lord Briarwood says softly. “My wife and I consider such acts of violence… unrefined. This ‘punishment’, as Tylieri called it, should never have taken place. And whatever you think is about to happen here, Desmond, you are mistaken.”_

_Desmond’s wits fail him._

_He needs time to process these words, time he doesn’t have. He feels bewildered. Lord Briarwood gestures for him to present his back once more, and then has to steer him gently to where he wants him as Desmond trembles and stares, wide-eyed, dumbly, at the ground._

_He doesn’t understand what Lord Briarwood wants._

_He feels the noble’s hand touch near the back of his neck and he freezes. He waits still for the inevitable pain. His fingers curl tightly around his crumpled shirt._

_But oh, wonder of wonders! Lord Briarwood’s hands are kind._

_He had reached out to adjust the clumsy bandages into place. His hands are efficient and practiced as he pulls them tighter, and Desmond bites down hard on his hand to stop his whimpering. But when Lord Briarwood is finished, the pressure of the bandages is not overwhelming, not uncomfortable. His new armour holds him up straighter, and Lord Briarwood tsks quietly as he pulls Desmond’s hand away._

_“Isn’t that better?” he says with a smile._

_It is better._

_It is better still when they show him Count Tylieri the next morning, swaying slightly as he dangles from the Sun Tree. The count’s face is contorted in the same horror Desmond had seen on the maid’s face, on the others servants’ and townspeople’s, on his own. He falls to his knees, weeping. Lord Briarwood places a hand on his shoulder again, offering employment, and Desmond promises him the world._

_He doesn’t consider himself an idiot for accepting their offer. His head feels heavy and clouded with smoke -- and it’s the only thing that keeps him from screaming when he sees the Undead shuffling through their everlasting tasks around the castle -- but he isn’t so far gone. He understands clearly what would have happened if he’d refused Lord Briarwood’s hand while he knelt below the Sun Tree._

_But he does recognise the idiocy in believing they would legitimately help him._

_The rebellion reaches out to him a year later, pressing hidden messages asking for aid into his hand, whispering promises of protection in return into his ear. He ignores them. He’s done doing idiotic things. When the news that the Briarwoods have crushed the rebellion reach him, he neither cries nor laughs. He merely ducks his head further and works harder._ )

The owners of the keep return victorious, and they tell him it is the Briarwoods who have been destroyed.

The Briarwoods are gone.

_The Briarwoods are gone._

There is a ringing in his ears as he slumps. Lord de Rolo can execute him now and he will die happy.

But Lord de Rolo looks… different. More like the young noble in Desmond’s memories than the man who’d shot him less than a fortnight ago. He doesn’t seem comfortable talking to Desmond directly, but the shadow of madness no longer darkens his face and he doesn’t stop the gnome from healing Desmond’s ruined hand. Both are good signs. Still, Desmond has little strength left to spare for really thinking about either the kindness of the gnome or the mercy of Lord de Rolo. The Briarwoods are _gone_.

There is a wide, idiotic smile on his face as he follows the others from the cell to the kitchen.

And Lord de Rolo does speak to him directly later -- though it is at court. (The half-elf seems troubled by the lack of a concrete promise of reparations, but Desmond is honestly still far too elated to care. What matters is that the Briarwoods are gone; nobility ignoring him generally works out far better for him than nobility speaking to him anyhow.) Desmond is too overcome by the entire situation to reply. When Vox Machina had asked him to tell his story to the emperor, he’d naturally assumed he’d be talking to a _scribe_ , not that they’d bring him into the throne hall. His face goes pale when His Majesty addresses him directly, and it goes paler still when _one thousand gold_ is brought out.

It’s far more money than he’s ever seen in his life, even when both his parents had been alive. The Briarwoods are gone and Desmond’s, well, Desmond’s rich! It’s hard to focus on anything else after that.

But because Desmond is still fairly clever, it clicks, as he lies in bed in the dark of the night, too excited to sleep because they’ll be in Whitestone by evening tomorrow. He bolts upright in his bed and his eyes snap open, staring into darkness. His gaze dart over briefly, but the two royal guards sharing the inn room with him do not stir. He is alone in the dark.

He has realised suddenly who he is delivering this message to.

He has realised who Lady Cassandra de Rolo must surely be.

The figure he had dismissed so casually appears in his mind once again, face grave, hair tumbling in dark curls streaked with white down onto her ramrod straight back. She had never spoken to him, never hindered nor helped, and though that made her far more pleasant than most of the other inhabitants of the castle, the uncertainty of what her true disposition might be had led Desmond to staying far from her. Still, he had always thought her some friend of the Briarwoods, a willing guest who stayed for her own fancies. He hadn’t realised she was the rightful mistress of Whitestone, an unwilling prisoner in her own home.

Would that even matter?

Lady Cassandra, the last of Lord de Rolo’s living family.

He remembers his interrogation on the palace grounds, as though the cool barrel of the gun were still pressed to his uncrippled hand.

_Frederick de Rolo. Lady Johanna. Julius de Rolo. Vesper de Rolo. Whitney de Rolo. Ludwig de Rolo. Oliver de Rolo._

He had answered, stuttering, pleading: _They’re all gone, sir_.

_You will tell us everything you’ve seen._

He hadn’t meant to hide that Lady Cassandra lived -- he hadn’t known it was her! Desmond had told Vox Machina everything he knew, everything _important_ , he hadn’t kept anything from them -- he hadn’t _meant_ to keep anything from him -- does Lord de Rolo _know_ Desmond kept his family from him? Does Lord de Rolo know Desmond had lied to his face?

Lord Briarwood had always, always known.

He is struck by a sudden panic. He has no good record of judging nobles accurately. His hand, his crooked, maimed hand, creeps up slowly to the letter, secure in the pocket nearest to his heart. What does the letter truly say? How much of the solemn reparations Lord de Rolo had offered him had been false pleasantries to appease his unexpectedly kindhearted companions, the half-elf and the bard?

_Which Lord de Rolo is the real one -- the one who had smiled at him or the one who had maimed him?_

His useless claw tightens its grip on his shirt; underneath it, he can feel his heart thumping hard, quick and unsteady. He can hear nothing but the pounding roar of his own blood. It thrums through his body.

 _The debt that I owe you is larger than coin_ , Lord de Rolo had told him, and Lord Briarwood chuckles in his head, twisting the words, reminding him of what _debt_ between a lord and his retainer means, reminding him what happens to those a noble is indebted to. The most pleasant fate they can wish for is to be left hanging on the Sun Tree.

His eyes dart around, the door is locked and he wants to dive out the window, no matter that they’re on the second floor, he needs to run, to run -- but the guards would surely catch him and throw him to the ground and beat him bloody -- he can’t, he _can’t_ , and he feels Lord Briarwood’s steady hand on his shoulder, and --

Desmond bites down on his other hand _hard_ , hard enough to draw blood. The flesh muffles his shuddering gasps and the blood grounds him too, just slightly, just enough that he can suppress the overwhelming, hysterical urge to flee.

He pulls the letter out, staring at it in the darkness of the room. Naturally, it is sealed. He feels trapped inside a paradox of despair. If he delivers the letter unopened and finds that Lord de Rolo desires Desmond punished for his (unintended) treachery, he is presenting himself willingly to his own doom. If he opens the letter intended for Lady Cassandra's eyes only, he makes himself a traitor intentionally, and even if he finds that Lord de Rolo is merciful, he rightfully deserves punishment. Desmond cannot trust in the leniency of nobles anymore, neither the Lord nor the Lady de Rolo's.

There is a third choice. He could leave.

A thousand gold is a lot of money, after all. He could leave the letter here with the guards and run. If he’s clever about it (if he doesn’t just literally run like an idiot), he won’t get caught. A thousand gold can buy a lot of _I didn’t see nothing_ s. The money was a _gift_ from the emperor, so it’s not like the guards will chase him for theft; they’re not Whitestone guards either, so he doubts they’ll be particularly interested in wasting time tracking down some errant servant to be disciplined. By the time word reaches the de Rolos, he’d be gone in the wind.

It would be so, _so_ easy.

The first rays of dawn peek through the window. If he wants to run, he has to do it _now_ , before the guards awake. Desmond looks down at the letter that contains his fate.

The seal on it is the de Rolo crest, the crest of Whitestone, with the familiar, jagged lines of the Sun Tree.

He can’t.

At the end of the day, he wants to see Whitestone again. He wants to see the Sun Tree free of death, majestic with its branches crowned in snow. He wants to find Trish, if she still lives, and tell her of what her sister did for him. He wants to see Lady Cassandra, apologise straight-forwardly for not helping her.

He wants to go home, and accept whatever happens to him without cringing in the dirt.

This may be the third idiotic thing he does in his life, and it may be the last.

For the first time in five years, Desmond Ortham straightens his back.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from [Woodkid's _Run Boy Run_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmc21V-zBq0) because that may as well be Desmond's theme tune lol.
> 
> This is my first time writing Critical Role fic! *nervous wave* Kind of a weird story to enter the fandom with, so please tell me what you think! (In particular I found myself struggling weirdly with verb tense in this, plz tell me if something seems off.)


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